


Not Yet, Not Ever

by VCCV



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 18:04:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10724436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VCCV/pseuds/VCCV
Summary: Haven’t you ever felt ugly? Unworthy? Unwanted? So does Rodney.





	Not Yet, Not Ever

**Author's Note:**

> Betas: A huge thank you to: jameschick sevfan daydreamer  
> AN 1: Inspired by Silhouette by Steven Walker.  
> AN 2: I have no idea what the hell happened. It was supposed to be a sexy PWP scene. Then, I got inspiration from a blindfold Supernatural story. Then, Rodney suddenly got scared of the blindfold. Next thing I know, angst is everywhere like fucking fungi and I think I've regurgitated every thought I've ever had about my own body awareness during sex. *facepalms*

Your eyes widen as you see what he’s hiding in his hand. You wish you had no idea where he found silk, but you’re pretty sure Tamachi in Anthropology was bitching just last week about the scarf from her brand new silk blouse going missing. Your eyes are stuck on the scrap of material, following the pendulum-like movement of his hand as he walks toward you. He stops in front of you and waits for your attention to focus.

You move your eyes up from the black silk, over his hand, up his forearm, past his bicep, across his shoulder and collarbone, across his strong chin, his pointy nose and up to his hazel eyes, darkened with desire…desire for you. You still have a hard time believing that he would want you. He’s so beautiful. So compelling, magnetic. When he fights, men obey him without question; his sense of command is absolute. When he flies, he’s at one with the craft, his hands dancing over the controls, his eyes darting from screen to screen, and all the while, he’s loose, calm, controlled. When he moves, he’s graceful, catlike. He glides from one movement to the next, as though performing a dance. Whether he’s under you, over you, he’s ethereal, angelic. His desire, his lust, his need shines around him like a halo, and you’re often hesitant to intrude on the beauty. But your hesitation never fails to draw his attention, and once his attention is focused on you…nothing could stop you from touching him. Pleasing him. Giving him everything he needs, everything he asks for.

Like now. The idea of the blindfold makes your stomach clench painfully. Sex has never been something you’ve gone into blind. It’s second nature for you to constantly scan others’ expressions, their reactions, and the tiny signals that show you their true feelings, their true motives. On too many occasions to name, knowing what they think or feel before even they do has saved you from humiliation. You can recognize when they finally become annoyed with you, and you can walk away first. You can tell when your babble has ceased to be cute and charming, and can shut up and let them take over. You can see when the idea of you touching them goes from enjoyable to making them flinch in disgust, and you can distance yourself.

Being blindfolded means you have to rely only on what John says, the way John touches you, to know if you’re doing it right. You can’t read the real answer in his eyes. You can’t interpret hesitation before he touches your flesh to determine his honest intentions. You think you know his honest intentions, but you aren’t completely sure. You know what he’s said to you; you’re beautiful, sexy, deep, intriguing, funny, cute, perfect. But you also know there has been something else behind that. You’ve never quite been able to decipher it.

Are you beautiful and sexy, but only with your clothes on? It isn’t surprising. You’ve quite the pudge problem. Too many chocolate bars, too little exercise. You’re pale, too pale. You don’t see the sun unless you’re on a mission, and the protective clothing you wear doesn’t exactly allow for a tan. Your eyes are watery, your mouth crooked, your lips thin, your chin weak. Your hairline is receding by the second, and your habit of talking with your hands makes you look rather spastic.

Are you deep and intriguing, only because he doesn’t understand what makes you tick? Also not surprising. You’re so focused on your work. You know he can keep up mathematically, but your tangents are often extreme. Mentally, Radek is the only one who comes close to understanding you, and even he is often left with a confused expression as you ramble on and on and on.

Are you funny and cute, but only because you’re an oddity? You are utterly eccentric, with your dozens of allergies and medical problems. Perhaps it’s cute for a while, but eventually, when reality sets in and he realizes you aren’t just a hypochondriac—that your life often rests only on your paranoia, will it become a nuisance? Perfect is in the eye of the beholder, and no one who’s beheld you for too long ever retains the notion that you’re perfect.

But you are desperate to keep the illusion for as long as you can. Because having had him, in you, on you, around you, touching you, kissing you, holding you, whispering beautiful fantasies in your ear, it has become as necessary as breathing to you now. You could have gotten along just fine had he never brushed back the hair from your face, thumbed off a smudge from your cheek, gently scratched your nose when your hands were full, but once he touched you, you were gone. Now, you’d do practically anything to ensure that he never finds a reason to stop touching you.

You’d even allow that tiny scrap of black silk to cover your eyes, your only real way to verify his reactions to you.

And it terrifies you just how far you’ve fallen.

You try to smile, but know it comes across as tremulous from the brief furrow between his eyebrows, the flash of concern in his hazel eyes. It’s a good thing you were already naked; there’s no way your trembling hands could have loosened buttons or undone ties at this juncture. You see the question in his eyes, the concern, the willingness to put this aside if it makes you unhappy. But you can’t. You can’t tell him no. Because your happiness doesn’t hold a candle to ensuring his happiness.

And so you nod, and close your eyes, wondering if this huge knot in your stomach can be seen from the outside, knowing your erection has begun flagging and hoping he’s too occupied with the silk to notice.

His hands are gentle. He folds the material carefully, smoothing it across your eyes, making sure your ears aren’t caught up in it, your nose is free. He ties it, taking care not to catch any stray hairs in the knot, testing its tightness so that it remains on, without causing discomfort. And then he takes your arms and gently tugs. You follow, pretty sure you’re heading toward the bed, hoping he leads you around the clothes pile you remember the two of you creating at the side of the bed.

He turns you, waiting until you feel the bed on the back of your knees, and then carefully settles you on the surface. His hand supports the back of your neck so that the pillow doesn’t surprise you, smoothing out the uncomfortable wrinkle you’ve caused in the blanket as you scooted your ass around to lie prone. And then, he’s gone. He’s looking at you. You know it. And what’s left of your erection deflates completely. You know he’s seeing all of your imperfections, all of your faults.

Your spare tire, your love handles, your pasty flesh and ridiculously pink nipples. He sees the silvery lines that used to be deep red stretch marks; a product of emotional eating while trying to finish off another degree, make a living, and still somehow survive enrollment as the youngest person—including the freshmen—on the entire campus. He sees where your hair has been chafed off from the tightness of your waistband; though, it’s not so tight anymore—he’s seen to that with dragging you around the countryside of a million and one planets—but the damage had been done to your body long before that. He sees everything, everything. And you can’t hide it, because you don’t know exactly where he’s looking.

It doesn’t surprise you that the first emotion you feel is sick vindication. You knew this would happen. This is why you rarely have sex. Why, when you do, it’s in a dark room. Hurried, frantic, often without even removing all of your protective layers of clothing. You don’t talk. They don’t want to hear you anyway. You don’t complain, even when they aren’t satisfying you. You just take matters into your own hands. After all, you should be grateful they took the time to be with you at all.

The second emotion you feel is sadness. You’d hoped he’d be different. He is the only one you’ve ever been with that was your friend before. You’d hoped that the friendship would be enough to hold off the derision. You’d hoped. You’d dreamed it. Every night, he’d touch you in your dreams. Kind, gentle, loving. He’d kiss your flaws and whisper of his love.

The third emotion is anger. If he’d only let you see. If he’d let you look at him, judge his pleasure, his need, you could have saved yourself this. You could have kept your delusion. At least in the privacy of your own head.

The fourth emotion is a quivering of panic. He’d looked upon you and felt disgust. Such disgust that he couldn’t touch you, yet couldn’t tell you to get out of his bed because of your friendship. That friendship that would soon obligate him to stutter an excuse why he couldn’t do this now. Why it wasn’t you, it was him. You should get up now. You should go. Go, go, go. Before he broke your dignity. He’s already broken your heart, but perhaps he’ll let you leave with your dignity.

Just as you tense to push off of the bed, he touches you.

His fingers sweep over your side, smooth and soft. Fluttery like a cat’s whiskers. They sweep up your side and over your chest, pausing to circle a nipple, before moving on to your neck, to your throat, up your face to your lips. There they stop, tracing the outline of your thin, crooked mouth. You can feel the calluses on his fingertips. You can feel the heat of his hand against your chin.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers.

And you break.

Tears begin to soak the sides of your blindfold. Your chin begins its annoying wobble. Your stomach tightens, as does your chest, trying to keep the air in, knowing that if you let it go, it will come out in words…words you shouldn’t say, couldn’t say, shouldn’t say. Please, you want to say. Please don’t lie to me. Please don’t pretend. Not now, not here. Not when I can’t see you. Not when I can’t defend myself. Don’t make me believe, you want to plead. I want to believe. I want to believe so badly that I could be yours, that you could be mine. But you couldn’t want me. Not like that. So, I’ll make do with what I have. But, please, don’t lie to me. Don’t make me believe there’s more.

Your throat swells up, and you hope that, even if your stomach fails, your chest fails, your throat will stop the words.

He brings his other hand into play, slipping it down your side and tucking it in under your back, sliding over your stretch marks, brushing your love handle. And his head comes to rest on your stomach, your spare tire, your pudgy little pouch-like reminder of all the times you’ve eaten to excess. Which reminds you of why you ate to excess. Which brings you back to scared and unloved and not fitting in and unwanted.

He nuzzles your stomach, moving his face around its surface as though he might do to a pillow, looking for the perfect place in which to settle. When he finds it, he gives a contented sigh. His first hand is still touching your lips, your cheek, your nose. His second hand is tucked away, but his thumb—so gentle that it’s painful—is free to paint circles on your over-fleshed side.

“Beautiful,” he reiterates. “I feel so safe with you,” he whispers. “You’re solid, real, tangible. I don’t have to be strong when I’m here. You’re strong for me. I don’t have to be anything but me. You accept me just like I am. All my flaws. I have so many,” he chuckles painfully, “I’m not sure how you put up with them all. But you do. Even when I can’t hide them from you. You look so deep inside me, Rodney. So deep I can’t hide anything. But even after you’ve found everything, you still want to be with me.”

“Can I love you, Rodney?” he whispers against your skin, and you want to scream. You want to beg for him to mean it. “Can I touch you, pleasure you? Will you let me?” Anything, you shriek in your head. Anything, anything, anything, just don’t ever stop touching me. Your cock begins to fill again; the thought of his hands on you is too arousing to bury it within your insecurity. You wonder if he’s noticed. You wonder. But all you do is nod. Unable to see his face, unable to read him, unable to remember if the lights are on, and unwilling to ask him to turn them off, because that will show your fear, your uncertainty, and you’re already teetering on the cliff’s edge.

He kisses your stomach, reverently. You can feel the whiskers from his cheek rasping across your soft flesh, and then he soothes it with his lips, with his tongue. He pulls his hands out of their resting spots and brings them together onto your chest, raking fingers through your chest hair, scraping barely-there nails across your pink nipples. “I love these,” he breathes, and you feel his tongue join his fingers. “So pretty, always tempting me under your shirts. Pointing at me when it’s cold, reminding me of how warm you get when I hold you, when I kiss them.” And kiss them he does. Your cock is now standing at full mast, waiting for his touch.

He worships your skin. Pays homage to every inch, many as they are, of your torso. He slides gentle hands over your sloped shoulders, over your biceps, kisses the pulse point at the inside of your elbow, the inside of your wrist. He sucks lightly on the tips of your fingers, swirls his tongue, his lips against your sensitive palms. He dips his tongue into your navel, then chases your treasure trail down your lower abdomen. But he stops. The only part of your body you aren’t ashamed of is your cock, and he pays it no attention, focusing only on areas you’d rather have died than let him see now. Now, when you’re vulnerable. When you’re blind.

He slides up your body, and you can feel his breath on your face. You know you’ve been whimpering, moaning, thrashing. But never speaking, never uttering a word. Because you know what will pour out if you do. He’s allowed your moans, your whimpers to guide him to their source, and now he hovers over your lips, his heat searing you, even from this distance. He kisses your nose, lightly. Brushes your cheek with his. Sneaks his face into the crook of your neck to taste the sweat droplets. Trails his tongue up behind your ear. Breathes softly into it as he nibbles on the lobe.

Then he’s back over your lips. “So beautiful, Rodney,” he whispers again. “So fucking perfect.” And he descends on your mouth like a dying man in search of salvation. He claims every millimeter of your lips, dipping his tongue into the divots at either side. Tracing the edges. Then, dipping his tongue between them, coaxing them open. And they do. How could they not? He’s asked. You are unable to deny him anything.

He drinks from your mouth as though it holds nectar. So delicate, so gentle. His tongue flittering around your teeth, over your soft palate, your gums, tangling with your tongue, teasing it into a dance, stroking it sweetly. When he breaks away, you’re gasping. You can feel him cupping your cheeks with his hands, and you know he’s finally feeling the wet silk. His hands become frantic as they reach behind your head, scrabbling for the simple knot he placed in the silk. He pulls it away, but for once, you’re too terrified to look.

All this time, begging in your head to be able to see, and now you can’t bear to look. To see what kind of lie it is.

“Rodney?” his voice trembles. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

You open them.

His face is still flushed with desire, but that is the last thing on his mind now. His eyes are full of worry, of concern. A hint of desperation shows around the tightness of his mouth. “Did I hurt you?” he asks again.

“Not yet.”

And you damn yourself. Curse yourself to the darkest planes for speaking. His eyes narrow, his brow furrows, the confusion clouds his eyes.

“Not yet?” he repeats. “How…what…not yet?”

“Not yet,” you reassure him. Though, he doesn’t look reassured.

“Not ever,” he promises you. You recognize that he probably doesn’t understand what you mean, that he’s making physical promises, promises to your body, to your flesh.

“I love you,” he adds, gripping your face gently between his hands again. “I love you. Not yet. Not ever. I promise you.”

You can’t reply. Here it is. In your lap. What you’ve wanted. What you’ve dreamed. But can it be real? You race around in your mind, panicking, until you remember that he’s taken the blindfold off. That you can see him. That you can make your own judgment call on his sincerity. And so you look. You can still see the worry, the concern—but behind it is something else. There is truth in his eyes. And you want to believe.

“Promise?” You echo.

He replies by sinking back into your mouth. His touch is still gentle, but there is firmness as well. Possessiveness. Ownership, perhaps? His body begins to move, thrusting gently against yours, bringing his cock in line with yours. The slick of your sweat is enough that the friction doesn’t hurt. None of it hurts. And it surprises you to realize that you truly mean none of it. Your body, your head, your heart. None of it hurt. Every thrust, every slide of cock on cock, tongue on tongue, pulls you further into him. Further into surety.

When you finally give in to the coils of warmth gravitating from your groin out to every inch of your body, you know. You know that he wasn’t lying. That he wasn’t trying to conceal anything from you. He is as he is, as you are who you are. He loves you. He loves who you are, what you are. And you are finally free to do the same for him. You cry out your release into his mouth, and he drinks it down. You pull away, gasping for air, and he buries his face in your neck, striving for his own completion.

As he reaches that crescendo, “Rodney, I love you, Rodney,” is chanted in your ear, seared into your skull, melted into your heart.

And as he lies sated on your chest, you turn your head the slightest bit and whisper back, “I love you too, John.” His embrace is so tight, it cuts off your air for a moment. But it’s worth it. He slips off of you and slides behind you, drawing you into his arms. He pulls you to him, your back to his chest, and he wraps his arms around your waist. And he breathes you in.

You’ve finally figured it out. That thing behind his words, that thing where you’re beautiful, sexy, deep, intriguing, funny, cute, perfect. It wasn’t any of the desperate excuses you made. It was fear. It was love. It was fear that you wouldn’t love him the way he loved you. He’s just as afraid as you, and it baffles you to comprehend that. And it saddens you that he thinks so little of himself. And it makes you happy to realize that your opinion of yourself saddens him as well.

And as you snuggle down into his embrace, his arms warm around you, his breath heavy on your neck, his lips gently nuzzling your skin, you glance down at the floor. There, your clothes—his clothes. Piled together, mixed up. Your boxers tangled in his shirt. His sock peeking out from under the leg of your pants. And you realize something.

Separate, you’re just a conglomeration of messed up issues. Lonely pieces, with nothing binding you together. Flailing helplessly in the dark. Dying for completion.

Together, you’re assembled. Parts united to become a functioning machine. Your boxers, your pants, your caustic snark, your unrivaled intelligence. His shirt, his socks, his people-pleasing skills, his physicality. You complete the missing parts in one another. You become one. Your epiphany strikes a chord of amusement in you, and you can’t help but chuckle.


End file.
